Greedy Rationality
by CeriseReve
Summary: This is a sequel to Daisy Irrationality where the evening continues from Amita’s point of view. “Rules—driving, ethical, academic, or algorithmic—always seemed like comfortable companions until I butted up against them.”


**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Numb3rs characters because they were created by Nick Falacci and Cheryl Heuton. This story is strictly the product of my overactive imagination and is for fun not profit.  
**Rating**: R or M  
**Pairing**: Charlie/Amita  
**Acknowledgment**: Stacy, your words of encouragement had excellent timing. Thank you.  
**Referenced and Foreshadowed Episodes**: The Pilot, Uncertainty Principal, Structural Corruption, Sabotage, Counterfeit Reality, Sniper Zero, Noisy Edge, and Manhunt.  
**Summary**: This is a sequel to Daisy Irrationality where the evening continues from Amita's point of view. "Rules—driving, ethical, academic, or algorithmic—always seemed like comfortable companions until I butted up against them."

**Greedy Rationality**

Damn it!

How could I have forgotten my glass of wine? I catch myself rubbing my lips, mimicking Charlie's thumb. I've got to stop being so obviously infatuated, otherwise my actions will no doubt go to Charlie's head.

The glass I'd used earlier is still sitting on the counter next to the freshly opened Chardonnay bottle. Flustered, my hands shake the bottle as I pour out a generous amount and although the flow of the wine is slightly sloppy, I'm relieved that nothing spills out onto the countertop. I've got to take a moment to calm my nerves, or I'm not going to be able to make it through the rest of this evening without making a complete idiot of myself.

Alright first things first, where did the cork go? I gather up my hair in one hand and stoop to look on the floor along the base of the kitchen's island. Nope. Where on earth can it be?

Ah ha! It's almost tucked completely under the grate of the refrigerator. Reaching over I jiggle the cork out from its hiding place. A dinner date is far from marriage proposal, but either way his question and this cork certainly popped. I stand, let my hair cascade around my shoulders, and stuff the cork into the wine bottle as far as it will go.

We've been dancing around the subject all week, but I'm amazed that he actually asked. I'm not sure what got into him tonight, not that I have any cause to whine, but since Charlie is one of the most methodical men on the planet something must have set him off.

I turn to look at the refrigerator again. If that wasn't libidinous, then I don't know the meaning of the word. The math department can't be the least libidinous place on campus because that honor clearly goes to the room where they hold CalSci's board meeting. Math: elegant, beautiful, and powerful. Meeting: banal, tedious, and lifeless. The winner is immediately apparent. I should argue that the math department is the most libidinous place on campus and until Charlie's father came barging in we were doing a nice job of demonstrating its libertine effects.

Why couldn't we have been left alone?

I wrench open the refrigerator—the jars on the side of the door clang audibly together—and replace the bottle on the upper shelf. I shut the door much more gently because being miffed is hardly constructive. I have to stay composed, be patient, and work towards the goal of getting Charlie alone tonight after everyone leaves. With a partially formed plan growing in my mind I return to the living room and the laughter.

I sense Terry's eyes track my progress as I circle back to my seat. When I slide into my chair she asks, "Don, did I overhear you correctly? Were you describing the difficulties of batting to Amita?"

I nod my head in the affirmative and Don looks a bit sheepish at her rebuke. "Perhaps," he mumbles.

"You trotted out your old baseball pickup line on Amita? The number of times I'm heard you use that line..." she nags. Charlie's eyes narrow partway as he glares at his brother. I notice that Alan appears to be waiting for Charlie's imminent explosion, but it doesn't come.

"It was just a conversation. I wasn't—wait, I don't recall you ever complaining before," Don replies.

"You want a critique?"

"Past history tells me I don't need one," Don says with a touch of ego.

"I get the feeling he's used it on you, Terry," David interjects.

"Now there's a great observation," Don lolls back in his chair and tilts two of its legs off the floor. We're all waiting and watching Terry fidget with her wine glass. "Terry, why don't admit it to everyone else?"

"Yes, he did."

The room erupts into a chorus of laughter and although he's smiling, I can see a dark glint in Charlie's eyes as he twists the daisy stem in his hands. He couldn't possibly be jealous, could he? He doesn't have anything to be jealous about.

"I dug my own grave there, didn't I?" she inquires. Don nods and puts his chair all the way on the ground.

"Did my son pull this the same night as your laundromat date?" Alan scoots forward to grill Terry.

"No, it was the next date."

"A date to the laundromat was good enough to get a second date?" David looks incredulous.

"Women are fickle creatures. They think even the most mundane of things are romantic," Larry says to no one in particular.

"I didn't say it was romantic," Terry argues back, "besides that was a long time ago."

"Don, have you always used the same chat up lines with women?" his father fishes for more information.

"I use what works."

I try not to snigger. At least he didn't go as far as to offer to teach me proper batting technique. Don was charming, but I must admit, I was more distracted with Charlie at the time. If he seriously thought he was getting anywhere….

"It wasn't that bad," Terry admits.

"So you're defending him now?" Alan's eyebrows rise. Clearly, he's having a great time pestering both his oldest son and Terry.

"I'm not…I…" Terry's stumbles with her thoughts.

"At least one of my sons isn't always clueless."

"Leave me out of this," Charlie warns.

"We should get Amita to be the judge. An outside opinion if you will," Larry chimes in while Alan's smile grows even bigger.

"I think," I glance over at Charlie and his eyes bore into mine, "it would be very smart not to answer."

"See, Don, you need new lines," David jokes.

"Hey!" Don throws both his hands up in the air. "Don't pick on me."

Alan pipes up, "At least Charlie is more straight forward. He just ki—"

"Okay that's it!" Charlie pitches the daisy on the table, tugs on his father's arm, and drags him away. "You need to come with me."

I watch Charlie, noticeably in a state of explosion, march his father away. Alan protests, "You deliberately pull me into the kitchen for this conversation. The kitchen where you—"

"Stop Dad," Charlie's voice carries to the five of us still seated at the table, but it drops and is quickly too quiet to understand. However, I can tell he's hissing at a fast and furious pace.

"Anyone else get the impression we've missed something?" Terry looks questioningly at each of us.

"Probably because we have," David reaches for the food tray.

"Larry, has Charlie been seeing anyone lately?" Don pries trying to stare through the wall into the kitchen.

"I don't think so. There was one of my postdoc students, Nadia Cooper, who he seemed interested in, but that never could have gone anywhere." I never did warm to Nadia. In fact, next time I see her I'll probably see red; her hair won't be the reason.

Larry turns to me. "You know anything Amita?"

"Umm," I hope this will sound natural, "he hasn't mentioned anyone to me." Which is a true statement, it's just a tad misleading.

"That's good because the only person he should be dating is you," Don motions in my direction. Larry shakes his head sadly.

"Thanks," I break the tension by taking a rather large gulp of wine.

"If my brother ever needs a good kick in the right direction let me know," Don advises as Charlie emerges from the kitchen. Hardly looking repentant, Alan follows close behind on Charlie's heals.

"Leave off, Don," Terry mutters.

"What? I'm good at kicking," Don continues and then appreciates that Charlie lurking behind him. "You want to tell us what that was all about?"

"Not really, no," Charlie crisscrosses his arms across himself defensively.

"So," Alan says and claps his hands together as approaches the table, "does anyone need any thing else to drink?"

"I've got enough for the moment," Larry swirls his mixed peach drink around and its tropical umbrella wobbles precariously.

"Nope, Dad, I'm good," Don raises his bottle and the liquid splashes inside.

The rest of us shake our heads to indicate no. Charlie edges closer to the group, stands behind me, and puts his hands on either side of my chair. He's being awfully possessive tonight. There's a pause in the conversation and the background music takes over for an uncomfortable moment.

"How long were you in Tel Aviv, David?" Terry breaks into the music's melody.

"Is taking in the Mediterranean coast for a two week vacation a viable answer?" David half jokes.

"No."

"I thought not. I was posted in Israel for about a year and a half."

"I've never spent Bureau time outside of the country," Terry muses.

"I'm not sure I need to return anytime soon. There's enough murder and mayhem inside the U.S. to keep us busy for quite sometime."

"True, but it would have been a great challenge."

"A stressful one to say the least. Defusing Milton's bomb just brought the whole Tel Aviv experience back. It only takes one half botched attempt before you learn all you can. Besides you can't spend too much time in that kind of high tension environment without a huge amount of on the job bomb training. The FBI tends to make it a priority."

"And for that I'm most grateful," Alan says as he retakes his seat.

"I will admit that you saved our asses on this case," Don admits. "Nevertheless I can't say I'm looking forward to the paperwork."

"Be glad all you have to write is a simple report. I have a whole thesis to write and finish," I comment.

"Yes, you do have lots of work left to do." Charlie says as he brushes my one of my shoulders in sympathy, shifting some of my hair aside. "Especially since you've throw in the complexity of probability ranking to determine the next best state to reach. You've got one hell of a task in front of you." He must like the rub of the velvet of my jacket because he keeps massaging my shoulder.

"Hopefully I'll make progress soon because otherwise I'll go crazy." I'll probably go crazy if he keeps touching me too, but that type of craziness I would welcome. Alan grins slyly like a kitten that gobbled up the forbidden canary as he watches our interaction.

"Have you picked out a title yet?" Larry asks. "I've always felt that deciding on the title is a huge milestone."

"_Unintended Consequences of Greedy Algorithm Heuristics and Suboptimal Solutions._"

As if he were burned, Charlie's hands abruptly disappear from my shoulders. He must have noticed his father's expression and realized what he was doing. However, he does still stay guarding behind me.

"Does anyone have any idea what that means?" David wonders.

"Are you sure you want to?" Don takes another swig of his beer.

"A greedy algorithm is a method or rule to determine the next best step to take," I start to explain. I suppose launching into topics like iteration, states, vertices, undirected weighted edges, or Lisp and its irrigating parentheses would drive everyone in this group into a befuddled stupor. Well, everyone except Charlie and Larry.

"For example, take the Knight's Tour," Charlie goes on and I sense his hands gesturing over my head. I envy his gift of teaching. No matter the topic he always manages to find a way to explain anything to any type of audience.

"A Knight? As in chess?" Terry asks.

"Charlie excels at chess and he prides himself on always winning. Of course it's chess," Don says, but I can tell he's proud of his brother. It may have taken years of annoyance and anger, but he is impressed. "I can't even remember the last time I beat him. Can you?" he looks to his father.

"It was three weeks after you taught Charlie how to play the game," Alan reminds him.

"Surely it wasn't that long ago," Don says.

"That was the last time you agreed to play against me," Charlie stresses.

"I seem to remember you throwing quite a fit, Donnie, one where you accused Charlie of cheating at the top of your lungs. The neighbors came over to make sure nothing was wrong." Alan fans the flames.

"Brotherly love at its finest," Terry remarks while holding back the giggles.

"Cut me some slack, I was all of eight."

"Twelve," Alan corrects blandly.

Don concedes his age with a touch of mirth, "Because of all the studying and research you did, you always had a better chance of winning than I did, Dad."

"Yes, and even that was slim chance after a few months."

"You know what you should do? Team up and get Charlie to play in a rematch session," Larry suggests.

"You honestly think that will help them beat me?" There's more than a hint of arrogance in his tone.

"Don't get too cocky, Charlie," I arch my neck to look up at him. Why does his cockiness have to be such an alluring character trait?

"I'm a little rusty," Larry says, "but I'll offer my services as someone to practice on. In a series of sessions over the course of a few weeks we should be able to develop a strategy, which the two of you can use to beat him." Larry puts his elbows on the table, laces his fingers together, and supports his jaw against his hands.

"That sounds like a perfect idea," Alan comments, overjoyed at the prospect of spending quality time with both his sons. "The three of us will play a few games of chess sometime, say in mid May. Me and Don versus Charlie."

"Alright, I'll consent to play, but you two," Don points back and forth between his father and Larry, "are in charge of the strategy."

"Yes, yes, fine," Charlie says. "However, you're still not going to win."

"I'm still waiting to hear how chess relates to Amita's thesis," David interrupts.

Charlie jumps at the chance to explain. "So going back a bit, in the Knight's Tour you start at any square on the board and moving in an _L_ shape visit all the other squares without traveling to a square more than once."

"You mathematicians spend too much time asking arcane questions," David shakes his head in disgust. "That would take forever to solve."

"But that's where a heuristic like Amita's comes in. Think about the shape of the chess board. Would you agree that the four squares on the corners are the most difficult to reach?" The others all nod. "And would you'd also say that squares on the edges are harder to get to than squares in the middle of the board."

"Yes, I'll agree to that," David takes another chip to much on.

"And then let's make a rule: At all times travel to the hardest to reach position."

"And this works perfectly?"

"No," I admit. "You'll still do have to do some backtracking, but you should arrive at a solution much quicker than just moving around randomly. However, the problem with most greedy algorithms is that the best step at one point may, in the end, hinder the goal. Blindly following a rule can lead us into an unnecessary or even harmful state, not necessarily in the Knight's Tour, but in other high level problems. This makes the algorithm is useful, but it don't necessarily produce the best solution."

"I think I understand," David says.

Not necessarily," Larry raises his chin off his wrists. "To understand something means to derive it from quantum mechanics, which nobody understands."

"And yet you dedicate vast quantities of time trying to understand it," Charlie quips.

"You've wounded me, Charles," Larry's expression is a mixture of mock hurt and hilarity, "wounded me deeply."

"I think I know better than to ask how this algorithm applies to the real world," Terry comments.

"After your discussion earlier you better," Don laughs. "Just assume that Charlie and Amita will use it to solve some monumentally difficult case and make us all look bad."

"You said it not me," Charlie grins.

"So, Charlie, how many other cases do you plan on breaking wide open for us?" David asks.

"As many as I can."

"No," Larry interjects, "you need to let him spend some time on campus. You can't keep him all to yourself."

"There are," Charlie stutters in his excitement, "there are dozens of fascinating applications in—"

"Stop before you drive us all insane," Don complains. "Are you trying to get us to leave?"

"Actually," David glances at his watch, "I've got to be up early tomorrow. I promised Linda that I'd come over and entertain my nephews."

"It is getting somewhat late," Terry agrees and stands to go.

"See what you've done," Don accuses Charlie as he gets up with the other two FBI agents and helps them gather their things to leave.

"Don't blame me because, even after all these years, you still don't enjoy a basic mathematical discussion," Charlie shouts to their retreating backs.

"Given the fact that you have a tendency to natter on about them constantly, I don't see why you'd think I could, "Don returns.

"And now you two have had a taste of the exciting mealtime conversations my sons put me through while they were growing up," Alan remarks to me and Larry. He picks up a mostly empty tray and takes it away to the kitchen.

"Laurel and I do have another hike planned for tomorrow." Larry says. "I should probably go as well."

"See, aren't you glad you officially asked her out?" I ask.

Larry gets up and stretches. "Well, yes, but I felt like an imbecile stumbling over my words."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," I reassure him.

"It couldn't have been that hard, Larry, all you had to do was ask. You knew she was going to accept," Charlie says and takes one of the now vacant seats. That's rich, especially after the way he practically tripped over his tongue simply asking me to dinner.

"When was the last time you asked anyone out?" Larry attacks.

"Me?"

"Ok, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to this pathetic display of testosterone," I grab the some of the empty glasses and beer bottles left littering the table. Their resulting guppy-like expressions fail to produce a coherent reply.

"I'll be happy to give you some help cleaning up," I tell Alan when he returns from his trip to the kitchen.

"Thank you," he acknowledges and gathers up another load.

"Did she just call us pathetic?" I overhear Charlie ask Larry as I walk away.

Once I've ferried the dishes into the kitchen I wonder if maybe this wasn't such a good idea. What possessed me to walk back into the room where the man I'm helping caught me making out with his son? He's watching me out of the corner of his eye and sizing me up, but mercifully our only conversation is the clink of glass on china. In between the clattering of the dishes I hear several _goodbyes_ exchanged out in the other room.

When the dishes are packed into the dishwasher he thanks me again and wanders back into the living room. I rinse my hands off, take another lingering glace at the refrigerator, and decide to take a final swing through the dining and living rooms to make sure everything has been picked up.

Don and Alan are the only ones left in the living room when I come back and verify that everything that should be in the dishwasher is. Charlie must still be here somewhere because there's no way he left his own house. Don's hauling on his jacket near the front door. "Are you going to tell me what was up with Charlie tonight?" he hassles his father.

"Yes, but not now." Alan glances quickly at me. "Charlie will give me hell if he overhears." Charlie's not the only one I think to myself.

Nobody's fool, Don follows his father's gaze. The resulting smirk makes him look like a boy who just uncovered long buried treasure.

"Tomorrow," Alan insists and ushers Don out into the muggy evening.

"You better."

"Goodnight," Alan hollers out into the darkness before he closes the door.

Leaving is the last thing on my mind. When Alan turns around he puts both his hands in his pockets and grins. "You aren't going to let us live it down, are you?" I ask him.

"Maybe in time," he at least has the presence of mind to look somewhat ashamed. "It is good to watch my son find some happiness away from his equations and theories."

Charlie where are you?

Alan continues, "A piece of advice: When Charlie acts, he's ran the numbers to make up his mind and he believes he can control all the consequences, but you aren't one of his proofs. Despite what my son believes, there is more to life than numbers. Be careful."

Speechless, I shuffle my feet and try to let his warning soak in.

A hall door, from what I assume is the bathroom, creaks open and Charlie saunters into the room. He shuffles to a dead stop when he realizes that it's just the three of us. He looks from me to his father and then back again to me. "Everyone gone?"

"Yes, Don's just left," Alan goes over to the stereo system and pushes the power button on the CD player.

The music cuts off suddenly and plunges us into a floundering silence. I'm so close to my aim of getting the two of us alone. What would be the best course of action to take? Math! Use a math concept, it worked to get rid of everyone else. Why wouldn't it work now?

I scan the room trying to find a good tactic. There's a hardbound journal resting on the coffee table, which will work nicely. "The other day you mentioned the print version of _The_ _Journal of Combinatorics_ came in the mail." I blurt out.

"I did?" Charlie's momentarily puzzled until, in wordless communication, I slide my eyes in the direction of his father and then the coffee table. Use that keen intellect of yours Mr. Eppes and connect the dots. "Oh! That's right I did," he grabs the journal off of a stack of papers. "There's a research paper in it that you'd find interesting. It doesn't directly relate to your thesis, but I think you'll find it useful."

I sink onto the couch cushions next to my purse and wait for him to join me. When he does hand over the journal I realize I've already read the article he mentioned. "Is that Jackson Levin's paper? I read it a few days ago."

"On the website?"

"On that exciting note I'm going to head to bed, but don't think I haven't figured out what you are doing," he waggles his finger at Charlie, who's too occupied perusing through the article to notice. "Night you two," he gives me a wink before he goes around the corner.

Giddy, I nod in the affirmative as Alan's shoes trop up the stairs. We're alone together at last.

"I agree his ideas about reduction for problems with dense graphs are impressive, but he spends too much time complaining about performance bounds for my taste."

"This coming from the computer scientist who constantly harps about efficiency."

"Remind me again why we want the Traveling Salesman to show up on our doorstep. As if I'm going to want to buy anything he's selling."

Charlie laughs. "It was your idea to study nondeterministic algorithms. You don't get to whine about the fact that they are riddled with NP-Complete problems."

"You're certainly not sympathetic," I pout.

"Sorry. Levin's written a book too where he goes more in depth about some of his heuristics. Have you seen it?"

"No, I haven't."

"I'm sure I have it somewhere."

I put the journal down on the couch when he stands up. "Here?"

"Yes, it's upstairs. Come on."

We climb the stairs to the second floor. I expect us to go into the solarium, but before we get there he leads me into an open doorway on the right and I suddenly find myself in his bedroom. Charlie twists on the lamp on his bedside table. I shut the door behind us and hear a faint click as the door snaps into its latch. The organized chaos of the room is pure Charlie.

He charges over to the full length bookcase and scans the stuffed shelves. "No, no, no," he mutters as he searches. He haphazardly extracts several books partway out of the bookshelf before rejecting them. "I know I had it up here a couple of weeks ago, where did I put it?" he turns around and digs through the stack of books and papers lying on the floor in a cluttered pile. "Here it is."

He tugs a book titled _Algorithms in Application: A Combination of Heuristic Approaches _from the middle of the stack and those above tumble to the ground. Book in his hands he flips it open and leafs through the pages. "Look," he jokes, stops thumbing through pages, and tilts the book so I can see it, "here's the chapter devoted to the upper bound of the growth rate. Surely you want to read all about big-Oh."

"No, I really don't." That's not the _O_ I wish to think about at the moment, thank you very much. I kick off my shoes, but he doesn't seem to notice since he's engrossed in reading and continues to scan the page.

"Charlie?"

"What?" Has he forgotten about why we were talking math in the first place? "You're looking at me like I'm nuts."

My heartbeat launches into overdrive when I deliberately wrest the textbook out of his hands and snap it shut.

"What'd you do that for?"

My heart's still beating double-time. "Charlie," I run my thumb over the spine of the book and sit on the end of his rumpled bed and traverse the final edge to my goal, "did we only come in here for an obscure textbook?"

I hear him gulp. "Well…No."

"At the moment I'm much more interested in you."

"I got…" he stammers. "I didn't mean to get—" he's trying to avoid looking at me.

"I know how your world is wrapped in math," I say and he looks up, hopeful. Charlie's the type of man who focuses completely on the actions of the moment he that he sometimes fails to see the whole. "It's sort of cute actually."

"That's the last word I wanted to hear."

"How about endearing?" Having Charlie focused entirely on me (and not during thesis review sessions) is overwhelmingly wonderful.

"That's not any better. Try embarrassing or mortifying. And speaking of embarrassing, I'm sorry about my father," he says sheepishly.

"You don't expect him to just forget it do you?"

"No, but I would have liked to keep you to myself for a little longer."

"I overheard Don trying to get more information out of him before he left."

"Great, just great," Charlie rolls his eyes. "Heaven forbid my father keep quiet about anything remotely relating to my personal life."

I simply shrug and place the book next to me on the comforter. He rakes his gaze hungrily over me and I'm suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he's male.

"Are you going to stay on the other side of the room forever?"

Charlie checks behind him to make sure that the door is definitely closed. "No one better interrupt us this time."

"I hope not."

"By the way," he crawls onto the bed and prowls towards me, "next time you say anything I've done is 'a pathetic display of testosterone….'"

A small thrill shouts through me. "You'll do what?"

The space between us shrinks and I can't believe this is really happening. This kiss is sweet and full and long. While I pull away and attempt to calm my breathing I notice that I've managed to completely muss up his hair.

"That," he says dazed and satisfied.

"In that case I'll have to make a point to do it more often."

We kiss a second time and it is all tongue, touch, and pent up passion. The room tilts and whirls around us; his hands and mouth are the only things that ground me. I'm out of control and it's divine. How did this happen so fast? His hands sneak down to unbutton my jacket.

"Charlie?" I struggle to get my arms out of the sleeves.

He finally gets me free and throws my jacket to the floor. "Yes?"

"Are we?" I lean in and nip at his lips. They are incredibly soft. "Really…" I whisper while nibbling his mouth.

"Really what?" he whispers back as his hands lazily sneak under my white tank top and graze the skin up my stomach.

"Going to…." I gasp and trail off. His fingers have crept beneath the underwire of my bra.

I retaliate by snaking my own hands under his shirttails. Did I just pop a button? "We," he pants between erratic kisses. "Can't."

Frantic for contact, our noses keep bumping together, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Don't." With my lips tingling, it takes a few seconds to steady myself and I try to gulp for more air, but he smothers me in kisses again. "Care," I rasp when he breaks off.

"More," he agrees. He's just as out of control as I am when he straddles his legs on either side of my lap.

Senses strung out, my thoughts become muddled when he shifts more of his weight on me and bends to the side to nuzzle my neck. "We shouldn't…"

He pauses for a moment and takes his hands out from under my tank top and moves back slightly. "You want to stop?" he breathes raggedly and cocks his head to the right. His pupils are dilated and very round.

"No," my breathing is scarcely consistent either, but I'm greedy and I also want more.

"Good," he pushes me firmly onto his bed and I drag him down on top of me. I scooch up towards the headboard and we rearrange our legs as I set to work unbuttoning his shirt. There is more than one empty button hole. When I'm done and he wiggles all the way out of his shirt I feel my face flush. I giggle in joy and he stares at me in wonder. His breath catches when he presses hard against me.

Little by little he inches closer and busses my lips slowly and tenderly. He pulls away and I stretch to keep the connection between us as long as possible. I'm breathless. Where did that come from? He's watching me closely as he combs through my hair and fans it out over the bedspread.

"Like that, don't you?" I laugh again.

"Yes, but that's not all I like," he's far too full of himself and wearing a crooked smile on his face. I drag my right foot up until it reaches his thigh and my knee is pointing up, brace my foot soundly into the mattress, and shove roughly on his shoulder. We flip over and I straddle my legs to balance on top of his hips.

"You…" he gasps shocked.

"Yes me. I decided you looked," I rock my hips over his, "entirely too smug for your own good." His expression screws up and I feel quite smug myself.

"You are wearing entirely too much clothing," he remarks after his eyes flutter back open.

"Think we should do something about that, hum?"

He pushes me to the side and I tumble over. "As a matter of fact I do," he unzips my jeans and just as I manage to wriggle one of my legs out, my foot kicks something solid. A split second later a thud smacks the floor.

"Dumb book," Charlie attempts to try and find it.

"I thought you were in the process of proving I'm more interesting than the book."

His attention swings back to me. "Is that a challenge?"

"Yes, I do believe it was," I reach up and caress his face. "Prove it."

* * *

When I wake I find it cozy and warm cuddled up against Charlie's chest. His arms are draped around me and he's cradled me close like a prized gift. At some point, since I know this isn't how we fell asleep, he must have covered us with the bedsheets and pulled me into his embrace. His steady breathing causes his chest to rise and fall gently and tickle my cheek, but otherwise the house is peaceful and hushed. 

The light filtering through the open bedroom window isn't near enough to indicate daylight, so I snuggle nearer to Charlie and sigh contentedly. Thankfully today is Saturday, or else I'd have to be up in a few hours to attend my _Theory of Computation_ class. However, I should probably spend some time working out the bugs in the probability section of the program accompanying my thesis. Charlie murmurs something unintelligible in his dream and hugs me tighter to him. Perhaps I'll go to the computer lab on campus this afte—

What have I done?

I shoot up in bed and try not to jerk out of his arms, but they slip down my skin and slide off of me. Charlie grunts and flops from his side onto his back. I shiver as the cold, early morning air slaps me.

If anyone discovers what we have just done, then the ramifications could be devastating. My degree would almost certainly be forfeit and he would probably be forced out of his tenured teaching position at CalSci. His reputation would be demolished and I would be the one responsible. My stomach lurches and I feel slightly sick; I can't believe that a few moments ago I was unknowingly reveling in that danger. How could I have been that stupid?

My queasy stomach wavers again when I peer over the side of the bed. I can just make out our clothes jumbled together in a heap: shirts, socks, shoes, jeans, and my bra slung over everything in the pile.

Cautiously I untangle my legs from his and ease off the bed. Fortunately Charlie doesn't seem to notice because he continues to snore lightly as I rewrap the sheets loosely about him. I then set about separating my clothes from his.

Once I'm properly dressed and his clothes are neatly folded in a tidy pile on the end of the bed, I take a good look at Charlie. The digital clock on his nightstand glows 3:26 and faintly illuminates his face. He's been the driving force in my graduate education, always forcing me to make new connections and draw better conclusions, but he's also becoming more than just a good friend. How do I separate the man from my thesis advisor?

And do I want to?

When he wakes our problem will truly be real and as long as he sleeps on in ignorance, the judgments of the entire of the world can't crash into us. I don't want to be forced to choose between Charlie and the Professor. I'm just far enough into this situation to realize that we still have a chance to get out.

I tiptoe over to the bed and sink onto the mattress, trying to find the courage to wake him. I should probably leave before he has the chance to stop me. I do need a shower and a chance to clear my head. However leaving, although it is the safe route, would only delay our next conversation because I'll still have to face him. This evening isn't something he's going to ignore.

Charlie takes a deep breath, stirs, and reaches for where I should be. "Amita?"

"I'm right here," I whisper.

"Well, come back to bed," his voice is mellow and a tad groggy.

"I can't."

Charlie sits up and the sheets tumble into his lap. "Can't or won't?" There's a bitter edge to his words. He flips on his bedside lamp and shades his eyes to be able to look at me. The light is harsh and only makes me feel worse. It hurts.

He blinks at me a few times and then his shoulders shift. "You're dressed." It isn't a question. "Were you going to leave without waking me?" he's deadly quiet.

"No, I…"

"I don't believe you." Face like a thundercloud he pushes off the sheets and swings his legs over the opposite side of the bed.

He's right. Stung, the only thing I can do is close my eyes in pain. The weight on the bed shifts and I hear the rustle of clothing. When I open my eyes again his back is towards me and he's balancing on one leg yanking on his pants.

"Charlie, please turn around."

He spins around with his arms crossed over his still bare chest. "What is it you want to say?"

"Neither of us were making rational decisions tonight," I begin.

"Funny, I actually was."

How can he be that thick? "Are you saying that as my thesis advisor or as my lover? Because those two roles should be mutually exclusive."

"Learning or love," he mumbles and lets his hands fall to his sides.

"Yeah," I say sarcastically, "are you trying to get fired? Of all the people you constantly remind that teacher and student shouldn't date it's quite amazing that you had a bout of temporary insanity and forgot!"

"This is my fault? You weren't exactly protesting."

I stare at him slack jawed and take a very deep breath. "Charlie, this isn't coming out the way I intended," I pause for a second. "I'm not mad at you I'm mad at myself. Look at the position we've put ourselves in. What is going to happen when people find out?"

"And who is going to?" he snaps.

"Your father for one if you don't keep your voice down."

He glares, but says nothing. "Think of how the disaster would unravel if the chair of the department or the other professors on my thesis committee find out," I add.

Realization dawns and finally settles on the bed next to me. "I'd rather not consider that," he admits when he cages his emotions. He rests his elbows on his knees and rubs the stubble of his growing five o'clock shadow.

"I don't want to either, but we have to. I can't stop thinking about how I'd be the one to blame for ruining you. Am I worth possibly throwing your whole career away?"

He starts to protest.

"Stop," I command. "Don't you dare utter some romantic twaddle about how I would be. I can't, I won't, be responsible for sabotaging your reputation. The scandal could destroy you."

"I was _going_ to ask why you're only worried about my reputation. Your reputation would be just as damaged."

"You're a brilliant well respected mathematician in the academic community, there's no doubting that. You are much more vulnerable than I am. All anyone would say about me is that I tried to sleep my way to a PhD."

"It won't be true," he insists and reaches out to grab my hand, "and besides I'm not going to let any of that happen."

"You can't guarantee that."

"Everyone in the department knows how diligently you work. If you didn't, I wouldn't have agreed to advise you. Regardless of what happens, you _will_ earn your doctorate and anyone who says otherwise is clueless," he gives my hand a brief squeeze and I'm gratified, but he's still not getting it.

"It's not my work that they'll be interested in reading about if our situation gets out."

Why do you keep referring to this evening as a _situation_, a _disaster_, or as a _scandal_?" He snatches his hand away from mine.

"But don't you see," I say, "it's your actions that people will condemn not your feelings." He looks as if I've slapped him. "And it's not just what others would say and do that's bugging me, it is what we could do to each other."

"I could never hurt you."

"At the moment that may be one hundred percent true, but it isn't right now I'm concerned about." Why can't I get my hands to stop shaking? "What if…what if we have a huge fight—"

"Like this one?"

I ignore him and continue, "And I decide to discredit you, or you choose to dock my grade."

I would _never—_" he must have realized he was practically shouting, "do that."

"Do you know how much power you have over me?"

"That," he growls, "was a very ugly thing you just said. _You_ are the one who isn't thinking reasonably and you're letting yourself get carried away. Calm down."

How dare he! I can't stand it anymore and leap up to pace across his bedroom floor. I'm the one thinking clearly, he's trying to avoid the whole situation because he's not thinking about the consequences. He has absolutely no right to be pissed at me!

I whirl around to give him a piece of my mind, but the words stick in my throat when I see that he has sprawled out on the bed on his back. He's staring straight up at nothing and looks utterly broken.

I guess I did insult him beyond belief. I quickly swing away and clutch at the windowsill to keep my poise. Outside the streetlamp streams light onto the avenue and the curtains billow slightly in the gentle breeze next to me.

"I'm sorry," I say meekly and turn to him. "I do trust that you wouldn't hurt me."

"Thank you," he's speaking to the ceiling and refusing to look at me. "I do have a question for you. Please don't lie to me."

I nod, but there's no way he could see it.

"Do I mean nothing more to you than a mistake?"

I blink, aghast, and suddenly make sense of his attitude. "This is why you are so upset. You think I just used you?"

He's as still as stone, but I suppose I avoided his question. "Were you only leading me on tonight?" he grinds out through clenched teeth.

"Oh, Charlie," I plead, "Charlie, no."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"How sure?" he rolls onto his side and supports his head up with one hand.

"Very." He's studying me intensely for deceit. "Consider it a tautology. You could never be a mistake to me."

The use of the logic concept settles him somewhat, but he's still troubled. "Because if I had woken in the morning and found that you were gone, then I wouldn't have known what to think. As it is I still don't."

"I wasn't going to leave because I wanted to, but in the end I just couldn't. I was panicking and I couldn't get over the fact that I…that we…"

"That we probably shouldn't have done this?"

"Probably not—and that's the problem because I did enjoy it. And," I duck my head, "it wasn't anywhere near disastrous."

Air rushes through his nose in a sound that isn't quite a snort. "There's that at least." Much more relaxed, he smoothes a curl of hair out of his eyes. "Wait, nowhere 'near disastrous.' Are you being deliberately coy?"

Oh fine, I'll pump up his ego. "Fucking wonderful, alright?" I should have seen this coming.

"Good."

Lounging there, looking like a man who just personally discovered addition, he's oozing pure male conceit. While I allow him to bask in it, I notice that the textbook from earlier is splayed face down on the floor, so I reach over and scoop it up. "It's going to be next to impossible to forget for the next few months," I mutter.

His puffed up grin dims. "Do you honestly want to forget?"

"No," I shake my head. "Even if I wanted to I couldn't." Several pages have been permanently bent and I try to flatten those that are wrinkled as best as I can, but they'll always remain creased. "Besides, trying to forget won't help our mess disappear. Do you know if there really is a written rule we've broken?"

"There is."

"You've actually looked for it?"

"Well sort of," he admits. He's wanted me for that long? "The guide in the course catalog says something like 'both faculty members and graduate students should maintain a professional and cooperative relationship at all times.' I know there are several other bylaws somewhere we could dig up, but I didn't have the heart to hunt for them."

"We need to figure out what we are going to do so no one does find out and those rules never become an issue." The book in my hands is suddenly very heavy, just like Charlie's expression. "You know I'm right."

"Isn't it the teacher who should be right all the time, not the student? Which," he gives a harsh sigh and hoists himself all the way upright, "is why we're having this conversation in the first place. What if you switched advisors?" he changes the subject.

"Seriously, who would I switch to?"

"What about Andrew Meacham?" He suggests.

"Are you joking?"

"Okay, he wasn't a good choice."

"No kidding."

"Janice Grays? She's on your thesis committee."

"It is impossible to hold a meaningful conversation with Grays without her droning on about the latest developments with the Poincaré conjecture." I sit down on the bed again so we're side by side. "And before you suggest it, Professor Saito specializes in theory. No one else in the department is as well versed in combinatorics as you. There's a good reason why you are my thesis advisor in the first place."

"You know I'm going to be twice as hard on your grading. I'll have to be," he says.

"Since you'll be doubly tough, then I'll know I've earned my PhD. I suppose I could switch disciplines, but that seems like quite a waste of the past several years…still Carlos Ramirez would be great to work with."

"He's in the physics department!"

"So?"

His only response is a scowl.

"Never mind, it was just a casual thought." However, I'm going I'll miss being at CalSci when I'm done. It's much more to me than just the people, the campus, and the work. The thought of going back home, really going back, scares me. Returning to Madras was always the plan, but I've been in California long enough for the memory and the life of the girl I once was to fade away. Arrogant to think I was simply going to learn from the best and remain unchanged. "I've accomplished too much to throw all my work with you away. So I guess this means that nothing more can happen between us until after I've officially graduated."

"Nothing? I'm not going to get my dinner date, am I?"

"I think you will, you'll just have to be patient," I bump our shoulders together to make him smile. "Besides, are you willing to take any chances here?"

"Being patient was never high on my list of priorities. I shouldn't have asked in the first place, but you and that daisy…. It made sense at the time."

"What does the daisy have to do with me?"

"It doesn't matter. Not anymore," he waves my thought away. "Does this mean we've decided to keep this evening a secret and act like nothing out of the ordinary happened?"

"It feels like we are just trying to sweep things under the rug, but I don't think we have another realistic choice."

"We don't. However it's not going to help that my father will be attempting to leave us alone at every possible opportunity."

"He may be overbearing, but he does care. Be glad that your father would be overjoyed. Mine would be hunting for your head."

"Is that all he'd be hunting for?" he winces.

"I was trying to be polite."

"Although, I guess you could make the case that there are two of them."

What is he on about? Just because he – Oh! I should watch my word choice. "You're not helping."

"Sorry."

He's clearly not, but I'm not going to dwell on it. "Are you expecting your father to be a problem?"

"If you keep your father out of the country, then I'll handle my father."

"That's a deal. What are you going to say when he bugs you about our kiss in the kitchen?"

"After he's done gloating I tell him that it was a kiss, nothing more, and that we stayed up late discussing the journal article."

"And he'll buy that?"

"Probably not because he's smart enough to know better, but he should take the hint when I rattle off all the reasons we can't date. I'll consider it a lecture to myself."

"Don't do that," I spread my palm out over his still uncovered chest.

"Do what?" When he speaks I feel his voice vibrate through my hand.

"Have any regrets. We may have been selfish, but, as hard as it is to see it now, maybe we did make the right choice." My pulse picks up when I notice he's far too concentrated on my mouth.

"I don't have any regrets."

"None?"

"No," he's quiet, but firm. One of his hands covers mine while his other cups my chin, and like earlier this evening, he rubs his thumb back and forth across my lips. Desire flares sharply between us and I surrender to the sensation. I lean in closer because I want to—I need to—kiss him just once more.

A car rumbles into the driveway and as it skids to a stop we leap apart. A few moments later a thump hits the front porch; this morning's _Los Angeles Times_ must have arrived. Are we so intoxicated with each other that we've lost all sense of reason? One single kiss never would have been enough. Lust would ensure that it could never be enough and that news is most unwelcome.

The car outside drives away and the silence between us stretches. "I should go."

He nods silently and stands.

I follow suit. "Here, this is yours," I give him the textbook, which had been resting in my lap.

"You keep it," he passes it back to me. "I don't plan on needing it anytime soon and hopefully you'd be able to put it to good use in the meantime."

I hug the book close as he opens the bedroom door and peers out into the hallway. He motions that the coast is clear and then guides me down the stairs.

In the living room my purse is sitting on the couch right where I left it next to the combinatorics journal. When I grab it I realize that we have to say goodbye, but knowing I have to leave and actually leaving are two separate things. I turn around and find him unlocking the front door.

"For what it's worth," I walk up beside him, "I do want to stay."

"I wish you could, but I think we both know how stupid of an error in judgment that would be. However, "a lopsided grin graces his face, "I'm sure Dad would be delighted to cook you anything you could possibly want for breakfast: cinnamon French toast, biscuits and gravy, eggs Benedict with hollandaise sauce, buttermilk pancakes."

I can practically taste the over-sugared maple syrup on the imaginary pancakes. "You're the one who is supposed to cook breakfast, not your father," I say after I've managed to shake off the flavor.

"You seriously want to eat something I'd make?" he asks. That was silly of me. This is the man who I'm forced to drag away for a four-hour-late lunch break when he gets too involved scribbling all over classroom chalkboards. Food for him can be a nuisance.

"If your father's cooking, then we'd really give him the wrong impression."

"Yeah, and it would make the ensuing lecture ten times less believable."

"You're still angry, aren't you?"

"I'm trying not to be," Charlie peaks through the window to make sure the porch light is on and pulls the front door open. "I want to kiss you goodbye, but I'm sure you'd find that an incredible foolhardy thing to do. You'll never be just a student to me."

I rise up on my toes and press a brief kiss on his cheek. "Unfortunately, that's the role I need to play."

"It still doesn't feel like we did anything wrong," he strokes my arm to keep me close.

"I don't think we did."

"After everything you said earlier can you honestly say that?"

"It's not you that I'm going to regret, it's the potential consequences."

"Consequences be damned."

The space between us grows heavy and we watch each other. Breathe. I have to breathe. "The proper thing for me to do would be to walk away, but that wouldn't be graceful," I say.

"Grace is in the eye of the beholder."

"It's beauty."

"Beauty. Grace. Both apply to you at the moment."

I blush. "You're making it very hard for me to want to leave."

"I don't want you to, but I know you must. This isn't what I want."

"I know. This isn't what I want either, but it's what we have to live with," I step out onto the porch. "Guilt has a nasty way of sneaking up on you."

"I absolutely refuse to feel guilty. If I had any brains at all, then I shouldn't let you come through this door for a while."

I dig for my keys inside my purse. "Do you honestly think that would help? Besides we can't always work on campus when you need help on another FBI case."

"I'll amend that statement with _except for professional reasons_."

"Nothing social."

"It's better than nothing," he says.

"It could be worse."

"I'm not sure how," Charlie bends down to snag the uninvited newspaper.

"We could be in the field of ethics and morality."

"We'd have flunked out long before we would have received the degree."

"Probably, but we'll do what we need to. Goodnight Charlie." I scurry across the driveway and manage to make it most of the way to my car before he calls out.

"Amita?"

"Yes?" I glace to the house and see and he's propped up against the doorjamb.

"I don't know how you're going fix the holes in your thesis work, but please find a solution soon."

I swish the algorithms textbook about in the air a few times as an answer before I unlock the car door. As I get in he waves goodbye and heads inside.

When I stick my keys in the ignition the porch light flickers off and a little bit of my hope fades. Inside the house I see Charlie's outline unfold the newspaper and begin to read the front page articles. I'm far too keyed up to sleep and it seems he's come to the same conclusion.

On my way to the nearest freeway, the 210, my thoughts drift to Charlie's parting words. Plodding relentlessly away at my thesis for several months, I've gotten no results. I've followed the rules, taken the practical path, and traversed the graph choosing sensible edges. Somewhere along the line, blindly obeying countless formulae, I got lost in the process. I'm trapped on a local maxima point and I know there is a higher peak, but every step I could take would first lead me much lower.

Without warning the stoplight in front of me flares yellow and then slams red. Instinct kicks in and I pound the brakes, enduring the whiplash, to stop. The combinatorics book and my purse on the passenger seat fly to the floor with a muffled thunk.

This is absurd!

I should have raced straight through the intersection. I'm not going to get into trouble if I run this red light. Especially since the only other car on the road is several hundred yards ahead and its taillights are blurring in the distance. No one would have ever known.

Running a red light is forgivable, but sleeping with Charlie may not be. How thick is the line between what is acceptable and what isn't? Which rules are screwable and which aren't?

Follow the rules, stay in your box, be good, and don't rock the boat. Rules—driving, ethical, academic, or algorithmic—always seemed like comfortable companions until I butted up against them. Would breaking through their chains and moving beyond be a bad thing? Every policeman, religion, Dean of Students, and mathematical law will say that rules exist for a reason. That purpose may be appropriate, but at the same time restrictive.

The safe path may be comfortable and the risky action might produce fantastic results, but one is too limiting and the price for the other is too high to pay. The safe, rational path with my thesis isn't getting me anywhere and the reckless, irrational path with Charlie is just as blocked. I need to climb above everything and make my own rules.

The light changes to green, but instead of driving on I rummage through my purse for a pen. However, I don't I have a scrap of paper big enough to write more than a line or two. Suddenly I understand Charlie's endless compulsion for fresh chalk and clean blackboards.

In a way the textbook did provided me with a solution, not the solution itself, but perhaps a course towards it. Levin's work may build the groundwork, but this is _my_ thesis and I'm going to work the problem until I find a solution.

Alan's advice was as much about Charlie as it was about me.

Even it if was pinned to my nose I would still have missed it the first time around. I have a lot to learn about love. Mainly, I need to find a way to make it coexist with learning. Charlie the professor can't teach me that. There is more to life than numbers, but right now numbers, beautiful and sexy as they may be, are all I get.

Even though it is still before sunrise campus security will let me into the computer lab. I pull a U-turn in the empty intersection and speed back in the direction of CalSci. If I can't mend my problem of the heart, then at least I can have a breakthrough on my problem of logic. Windows of opportunity rarely linger.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

I'm still a little miffed that Amita is at the house in both Counterfeit Reality and Sniper Zero. When I first had the idea for Greedy Rationality I had Charlie holding firm and saying "You don't get to come back through this door again." Thus making Amita's "If you can't come in the front door, climb through a window," line in Noisy Edge and Charlie's resulting downcast expression and smile have more meaning.

"To understand something means to derive it from quantum mechanics, which nobody understands." Larry's quote is a proverb among physicists and as far as I know the origin is unknown.

Lisp is a computer language. The syntax of the language is overloaded with parentheses and you have to get them to match up. The joke among programmers is that Lisp supposedly stands for Lots of Irritating Single Parentheses.

Big-Oh notation describes the upper bound of the growth rate for the runtime of an algorithm. It defines the worse case scenario. You would say something like an algorithm is in the set _O_(f(n log n)) in the worse case. Too technical for you? Be grateful I stayed away from the puns about a problem being NP-Hard.


End file.
